No Mo NaBloPoMo

I have failed. I did not post last night.

I was knees-to-the-tile hurling my guts out last night after we got back from Wurstfest. Yes, WF did me in again, but not in the usual way. Though I drank some beer early on, I stopped early so that I would be the sober one to drive home this year, damn it.

Sadly, pathetically, I think it was some bit of errant fair food that did me in, probably the spur-of-the-moment purchase of fried shrimp-on-a-stick, upon discovering that the fried pickle line was too long. (No, it was not one of those South Beach days. Yes, I know that I had better get on that.)

So, late last night, shivering and sweating in my bed, I had the occasion to question the wisdom of ordering shellfish at a fair. A fair devoted to getting drunk. A fair devoted to getting drunk that is three hours from the nearest ocean.

I freely admit that it may not have been the shrimp, though...perhaps it was just my stomach rebelling overall, from the other things swimming around in there...beer, sausage, cajun chips, and a sip or two from YG's Cherry Icee, which are so much more disgusting than I remember.

(It may also be related to the fact that I took OG and the Noxious boy on the Tilt-A-Whirl not long before we left, and the waaaay stoned carny LEFT US ON THERE for what appeared to be three turns worth of time. Seriously, and I'm not just being an old woman about this. Bill and Bob will attest to the fact that every adult on that goddamn ride had their head lolling by the end of it.)

For what it is worth, in those horrible, bed-spinning few minutes between bathroom and unconsciousness, it did occur to me that I should go try to blog something before I passed out. (Clearly, I did not, as I am sane; I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you.)